


All Is Fair in Love and Trade

by lathalea



Series: Just Imagine [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarven Politics, Dwarves, Emotionally Constipated Thorin, Erebor, F/M, Iron Hills, Post-Quest of Erebor, Romance, Secret Names, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:41:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29206776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lathalea/pseuds/lathalea
Summary: The idea for this fic has been bouncing around in my head for quite a while, but whengweneversent me her ask on Tumblr as a part of my "The Hobbit Sunday Funday" event, I knew it was time to write it down. Thanks, Gwen! :)Around five years after the Quest of Erebor, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under The Mountain, needs to finalize some very important negotiations, but he doesn't suspect that Lady Ragna from the Iron Hills is as stubborn as he is.
Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield/Original Female Character(s), Thorin Oakenshield/Reader, Thorin Oakenshield/You
Series: Just Imagine [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2135697
Comments: 22
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gwenever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenever/gifts).



“Twenty percent off our regular iron ore price,” you state your offer firmly.

“It is not possible, my lady,” his low, rumbly voice reverberates against the walls of the chamber.

“Twenty-five,” you offer. You won’t give up that easily. Especially not when the prosperity and safety of your home, Iron Hills, is at stake. And especially when it comes to the legendary King Under the Mountain. You have heard a lot about him since he reclaimed his birthright and the kingdom of Erebor for his people five years ago. Some said he was cantankerous, others – that he was as stubborn as a mountain goat, and some – that he was a great warrior, while the elderly dwarves claimed that he was as skilled strategist as his grandfather. Everyone agreed on one thing: Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, had a temper. Unfortunately, none of those pompous bastards cared to mention how impossibly handsome he was.

Now, he is sitting across the table in a meeting chamber of Erebor, slowly shaking his head in disagreement. A vertical line of a frown cuts through his forehead. Though no crown graces his temples, he emanates a distinct regal air. One glance into those piercing ice-blue eyes of his and no one can doubt who is the king here. The dark mane of his hair, almost as black as a raven’s wing, cascades down his shoulders. One of his temple braids brushes against his bearded cheek. You can’t stop yourself from admiring his thick beard braid clasped with a bead made of silver and sapphires. The King of Erebor is both a formidable and an alluring opponent, but you don’t plan to budge.

“Twenty five percent, and we will deliver the final product to Erebor on our cost: blast furnace-cleaned, refined, high quality iron ingots straight from the Hills, ready to work with. This is my final offer, Your Majesty,” you repeat your generous proposal.

“My lady, I told you already: this is out of the question. The Forge Masters of Erebor will never divulge their secrets, not even to their kin in the Iron Hills,” he stands up. King Under the Mountain or not, he has a nerve! You grind your teeth and rise from your chair as well.

“Every secret has its price,” you try once more, reminding him of an old dwarven saying.

“Are you suggesting, Lady Ragna, that my Forge Masters are for sale?” He rumbles at you in that deep voice of his. How dare he speak such things?! And how dare he make your knees weak with every word he speaks? His voice makes you think of wild honey, malt beer, and a stormy sky at midnight. In moments like these, you are glad that he calls you by the official name you chose for yourself when you came of age, a widespread dwarven custom. You keep your real name secret; only a handful of dwarves know it. According to a legend, disclosing your true name to another Dwarf binds them to you for life, but also grants them power over you.

You take a few steps towards him, your hands clenched into fists. No way in seven hells of Morgoth you'd show your weakness to Thorin, son of Thrain.

“I am proposing a trade deal! Erebor needs our iron and we need those long-range crossbows against the orc raids!” you throw your hands in the air, gesticulating forcibly to stress the importance of your words.

“The only deal Erebor is prepared to enter into with the Iron Hills at this point is as follows: our gold for your iron, the customary trade exchange,” he bares his teeth as he speaks, their white, even rows contrasting with his dark, lush beard, reminding you of a feral beast. And now he glares at you too. Perfect.

“But this is the exact same deal we have been renewing every year for the last five years!” you protest loudly.

“Indeed,” he articulates this word slowly and crosses his arms against his chest. There is a mysterious glint in his eye as he looks at you, but you don’t care at this point. You want to smack him in the face and wipe off that haughty smirk from his lips.

“The times have changed. We need weapons, not gold!” you protest. He clearly does not understand a thing!

“You may take it or leave it. Your choice, Lady Ragna,” he looks at you pointedly, makes a short bow, and leaves the council room. This is when you realize that the negotiations are over. Bloody, cantankerous, stubborn, too handsome for his own good king of all seven Dwarven Kingdoms!

* * *

_ One month later _

Your second meeting with that irritating mountain goat also known as the King Under The Mountain happens in slightly different circumstances. 

“Welcome to the Iron Hills, your majesty,” you make an elaborate bow, cursing the uncomfortable, heavy, jewel-encrusted bodice of your ceremonial gown. Yes, it is supposed to flaunt the wealth of Iron Hills at this particular spectator. Its cut is rather low, uncovering your shapely neck and some strategic parts of your two voluptuous assets, as you call them (it’s all about business with the Dwarves, isn’t it?), but there is a perfectly practical reason behind your choice of wardrobe. It has absolutely nothing to do with those deep ice-blue eyes of the king. Nothing whatsoever. You simply have a new strategy against this difficult mountain goat.

“Lady Ragna, what a surprise,” king Thorin of Erebor responds with a bow, his voice even lower and more enticing than you remembered. A piece of sinfully sweet caramel covered in dark chocolate comes to your mind.

He wears black royal robes embroidered with gold, and a fur-lined cloak hangs from his shoulders. His broad shoulders of a warrior. The legendary Raven Crown rests on his temples, obsidian against gold, a symbol of his power. What business does he have looking like this? Why can’t he be elderly, toothless, bold, with a humped back or a much too large beer belly? Who allowed him to have this majestic profile, wavy dark hair with several noble silver strands among them? And what about his patrician nose, of all things? Didn’t he get the memo about what Dwarf-women say about men with prominent noses like his? Outrageous.

There is that glint in his eye you recognize from your visit to Erebor and his gaze discreetly slides over your body. It takes less than a heartbeat, but you notice it clearly. Ha! Your strategy seems to already bear fruit. He’s not the first Dwarf to look at you this way, as if you were a succulent smoked ham, ready to eat. Dwarf-men tend to think with their stomachs. And with that one other interesting body part as well. You are glad to see that the King of Longbeards is no different.

“I hope your journey was untroubled,” you recite the customary niceties. 

“The highroad was dry and we were spared the rain,” he clasps his hands behind his back. You are trying to ignore the protruding outline of his pectoral muscles. You are also trying not to think that under his bespoke tunic, there might be a well-honed chest of a warrior.

“May I ask where my cousin is?” he looks around searchingly.

“Lord Dain sends you his regrets, your majesty, but important defense matters delayed his return,” you explain with an unfazed expression on your face. You don’t want to spoil the surprise. 

“What important defense matters?” he sets his piercing gaze on you.

“There were Orc sightings by our southern border.”

King Thorin Oakenshield gives out a short laugh. Confound him! Why does even his laughter have to be so alluring? 

“Ah, that’s Dain! He would never miss an opportunity to fight!” he smirks. “Is he not to be the one leading the negotiations on behalf of Iron Hills?” 

“You will be provided with the negotiator he appointed, your majesty,” you explain graciously. Just a moment longer.

“And who is he, my lady?” King Under the Mountain tilts his head slightly.

“She,” you correct him with a small smirk of triumph. “It is me, your majesty.”

You are still cherishing the expression that crept up on His Majesty Thorin Oakenshield’s face when he heard your words. You keep recalling it over and over as you sit behind a very impressive and completely soulless mahogany table. The possibility of a trilateral treaty with Mirkwood is to be discussed, but first Erebor and Iron Hills have to work out a mutually beneficial approach before the diplomatic talks with the Elves can begin. Or, as Dain affectionately calls King Thranduil’s subjects, ‘those damned tree shaggers’.

After hours of unproductive negotiations between two groups of very talkative and very boring advisors, your mind starts to wander and your gaze rests on someone’s strong, slightly tanned hand. A quill scratches against the parchment, held in thick but surprisingly nimble ringed fingers. You admire the elegant letters that appear on the page, gladly ignoring the exhausting droning of Master Stenfast, Lord Dain’s Mining Advisor about the yearly ore extraction. 

The letters on the parchment slowly transform into refined geometrical shapes and artistically cut gems. After a while, you realize it’s a pommel and a grip, parts of a sword design. At that moment, the advisor finishes his lengthy tirade. You thank him with a nod, and then it’s time for Erebor’s Mining Advisor to recite the numbers. As his endless litany, your eyes return to the parchment only to see a large blotch of ink in the middle of the page. The quill snaps in half under the strong fingers of the artist as if it was a straw and then you recognize one of the signet rings adorning his hand. The royal seal of Erebor. For the last hour, you have been openly staring at the hands of Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain. Damn. You raise your gaze to his face and notice the furrowed brow, the determined set of his jaw, and the stormy look in his eyes. There is that regal glare again. Damn, damn, damn. If only he were not so disconcertingly handsome. 

Quickly you avert the gaze and look around, noticing the glossy, blank stares of several Dwarves as well as Master Hrothgar’s quiet snoring in the corner of the chamber. That’s it. You order a break for the day and decide to reconvene tomorrow.

* * *

You are sitting on a stone railing of a terrace carved in the face of the mountain, overlooking the valley below. Dangling your feet over the precipice, you can’t shake off the feeling of restlessness. For a while now, you have been stargazing, puffing on your pipe from time to time; it has always brought you peace after many a long day, but tonight it is different. You can’t stop thinking about that stormy gaze and the sparks glittering within, like stars floating on the endless sea of heaven. Damn that Dwarf. And his majestic hair, too.

“May I have a light?” a deep, rumbling voice reaches you in the darkness. Great. Isn’t it enough that he is tormenting your mind? Does he have to barge in and ruin your moment of peace?

“Your majesty…” you quickly put your pipe away.

“Please, do not stand up on my account, I have already received too many bows today,” a large silhouette approaches you slowly and soon Thorin Oakenshield stands beside you. You can see the outline of his face in the pale moonlight that softens his features.

“As you wish, your majesty,” you nod and reach to your belt, quickly procuring your flint striker. 

“Are the people of Iron Hills always so formal, Lady Ragna?” he moves closer to you with his meticulously carved red oak pipe in his hand.

“Only when showing respect to the King of the Longbeards. Our king,” your voice trails off when you see how his lips slowly wrap around the bit of his pipe. You swallow. He grunts, clearly displeased at your words. 

“Shall we?” he mutters through clenched teeth and moves his face towards yours. The smell of fresh pine needles, tobacco, and leather envelops you. Of course, why not, more torment for you. You hold your breath… and then you see that he’s looking expectantly at your hands.

“Of course, your majesty,” you raise your hands to the bowl of his pipe and start working with your flint striker.

“Thorin,” he says.

“Your majesty?” you freeze.

“We are alone. Away from the court. You may call me Thorin,” he takes out the pipe from his mouth for a moment.

“But… you are the King Under the Mountain!” you protest. What is he thinking? And why is he eyeing you this way? Is this some new trick of his?

“I won’t tell anyone if you won’t,” he grins, and suddenly he looks more like a mischievous young Dwarf than the King of Seven Dwarven Kingdoms with years and years of experience under his belt. The sullen King Thorin Oakenshield. Grinning at you. Perhaps you packed your pipe with Old Toby instead of your regular Dale Leaf and now you’re hallucinating?

“Under one condition, your majesty.”   
“It is always trade and negotiations with you, Lady Ragna,” he chuckled. “Let us hear it, then.”

“You may call me Ragna,” you lift your chin proudly.

“Your wish is my command, Ragna,” he bows his head slightly, putting the bit into his mouth again. Is that a shadow of a smile hiding in the darkness of his beard? You are definitely hallucinating.

“I am honored, your m-- Thorin,” you correct yourself politely. Vigilance. Yes, you have to be vigilant. Maybe he is trying to soften you up to gain the upper hand in the negotiations tomorrow. But what about that lingering smile? In order to hide your confusion, you return to your efforts of lighting his pipe. Damn your hands, why are they shaking? It’s not that cold! Several sparks fly in the air, but a stray gust of wind blows them off. 

The King’s…, no, Thorin’s face moves closer towards you, his broad torso shielding you both from the wind. A stray lock of his hair brushes against your cheek (why is it so soft?!), and if you wanted to (not that you do!), you could have easily pressed your forehead against his in an intimate gesture (but you’re not that easy, oh no! It’s not even on your mind, not at all!).

He holds his pipe firmly in his hand; a few more sparks fly and soon small wisps of smoke begin their unhurried pilgrimage towards the sky. The wind picks up and your hand moves swiftly to shield the pipe, brushing against the incredibly warm skin of his palm. A surprisingly pleasant tingling sensation runs all the way from your fingers to your spine. Why are you trembling now, woman?!

“Are you cold, Ragna?” Thorin asks hoarsely. The way he speaks your name, with a slight growl, may or may not make you… feel some things. Before you start pondering it, his large palm covers the back of your hand. His skin is slightly coarse and calloused, probably from long years of battle training, but his touch is careful, almost delicate. Your eyes meet above the pipe, its glow shedding a golden gleam on his face, lighting mysterious fires in his eyes.

You shake your head and quickly move your hand away, “The only place I’m cold at is the negotiation table. You will see it tomorrow.”

“And until then?” golden flames dance in his eyes. The sweet smell of his tobacco surrounds you.

You place your hand above your breasts, the same hand that touched his moments ago. His eyes follow your gesture, and you say, “Until then I’m going to be hot as a furnace. I bid you goodnight, Thorin.”

Your feet land on the stone floor of the terrace, you gather your skirts, make a mandatory bow and then you return into the mountain as graciously as you can. Only when you are out of his sight and a few corridors away, do you stop and rest your back against a cold stone wall, exhaling loudly.

That sly, arrogant, overconfident goat herder of a king! How dare he make your heart beat faster?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! So, what do you think? Should we continue with this story? :)
> 
> P.S. Check out [Gwenever's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenever/pseuds/gwenever) work! :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trade negotiations weren't too successful, but the evening you spent with Thorin makes you realize there is a living and breathing man underneath that cold exterior of a king... How are you going to handle it?

“Good morning, Lady Ragna.”   
“Good morning, Th-- your majesty.”

“I hope you had a pleasantly warm night. I heard last evening was especially cold,” the King, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, smirks.

“My night was quite satisfactory... in terms of warmth. I can only hope that you were not left out in the cold yourself, your majesty,” now it is your turn to smirk.

He chuckles. Unbelievable. He does it very quietly, so that only you hear it, and Lord Balin as well, but the ruler of Erebor does indeed chuckle. The King’s advisor looks at his monarch with wide eyes. Oh yes! Surprise, Lord Balin! The stern and solemn King Under The Mountain can chuckle! And flirt! And make a woman’s knees go weak with one of his meaningful glances! How dare he.

You have no idea how you survived the night after what happened on the terrace, but one thing is certain: now you absolutely need to focus on the negotiations between Erebor and Iron Hills. The council chamber is slowly filling with Dwarves. Thorin, ahem, King Thorin, is about to take his seat when he places a finely looking leather pouch on the lacquered black surface of the table in front of you.

“I believe I have found something that belongs to you, my lady,” he looks at you pointedly.

“This is not mine,” frowning, you glance at the golden geometric pattern running across the leather. A classic Erebor pattern.

“Care to look inside?” he raises one of his dark eyebrows in a very alluring way. Damn his sexy eyebrows.

You open the pouch and then you understand everything. Inside you find several objects. First of them is a linen bag with the words “Longbottom Leaf” written across it. It’s been a while since you smoked it, and you always enjoyed the aroma. Who would have thought. Someone here has a good taste in tobacco. But that’s not all. You recognize another shape in front of your eyes.

Your pipe. The one that you smoked yesterday evening. The one that you forgot to take with you when you ran away from… no, no, you were not running away, you were strategically retreating in order to regroup. Damn.

“Thank you, your majesty. It seems that it does indeed belong to me,” you admit, gritting your teeth. That sly mountain goat knew exactly when to make his move. It’s not as if you were to reject his gift or make a scene with all those Dwarves around present. You steal a glance at the King, but he has already schooled his face into an official, expressionless mask. At that moment, you decide to tell him what you think about such gestures after the meeting, preferably in a secluded place, because you plan to be very loud and swear a lot.

Now, however, you sit down with a sigh and officially commence the negotiations. The advisors are doing the best they can to put you to sleep with their monotonous mumbling. You raise your gaze from a stack of parchments in front of you only to meet a pair of ice-blue eyes from across the table. If there was a shred of decency in that bullheaded Dwarf, he would have averted his gaze or at least pretended he’s looking at something else, but nooo. He’s so bloody self-confident that he keeps on staring at you as if it was the most natural thing in the world. It isn’t! Kings are not supposed to look  _ this way  _ at their subjects, especially not while they are leading the most important trade negotiations of a decade!

Simmering in your anger, you’re about to show him (discreetly, of course) an exceptionally indecent gesture, but then his eyes travel towards Master Stenfast, who is in the middle of his speech about the importance of proper timber storage during transport. Then, the King’s gaze returns to you. And what does he do afterwards? He playfully rolls his eyes with a tormented expression on his face.

You blink. Twice. Yes, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór has just rolled his eyes at you. Really. And what’s worse, you barely manage to stifle a chuckle, as if you were a naive lass and not a seasoned diplomat. The corner of his mouth twitches slightly in amusement. You growl inwardly.

The door to the council chamber opens with a bang.

“Orcs! The Orcs are attacking!” a member of Lord Dain’s guard exclaims, holding a mighty axe in his hand. The warning horn sounds just after his words. Shouts and hurried footsteps are echoing against the walls of the nearby corridor.

“How many?” Thorin Oakenshield stands up quickly, resting his fists against the black surface of the table, his knuckles white.

“At least three Gundabad units!” the guardsman responds, standing to attention.

Murmurs and surprised gasps fill the chamber.

“We have no time to waste. Lead me to your captain!” the King of Erebor barks out the order and leaves the chamber, his dark hair adorned with silver beads spilling over his shoulders, his golden-hemmed black cloak following his every move. Faint pine scent reaches your nostrils.

“My lady,” Master Stenfast turns to you, pulling at his white beard in distress. “May I ask… Three Orcish military units… Aren’t they quite a lot?”

“Indeed, Master Stenfast,” you’re already standing up, just like most of the other Dwarves, at least the ones who are awake. Your eyes are set at the door through which the warrior king has just left. “Quite a lot.”

“Then... I guess... the negotiations can wait a wee bit…” his voice trails off.

“They will have to,” you gather your skirts and move towards the doorway, making your way through the group of Dwarves hurrying in the same direction.

“But Lady Ragna...! Pray tell... Where are you going?” the ancient advisor’s voice trembles slightly behind you.

You reply without turning your head back, “To the battlements!”

* * *

Shit, shit, shit. Who came up with the brilliant idea to run to the battlements in your very fancy, very heavy and very uncomfortable official dress?! Ah, you did. Well, you admit, it’s not the cleverest idea you’ve had, but your city is under attack. You look down from the battlements, feeling the wind brushing against your face. A horde of Orcs is approaching the gate. You notice their deformed bodies, hear their terrifying shouts, and see how the blades of their weapons glint ominously in the sun. A sharp sound of the Gundabad horns reaches your ears and then a group of the attackers on the right (the warriors would probably call it “the right flank unit” or something to make things sound more complicated than they actually were) raises spears emitting a guttural roar from their throats and…

“Duck!” someone shouts and pulls you to the ground, behind the battlement. The air is loud with the whiz of spears raining above you. Dozens of dwarven boots stomp around you, warriors running into every direction. You want to move, but something heavy and hard pins you to the ground. To your left, a Dwarf falls to the floor with a groan, a long wooden shaft pierces his shoulder. After a moment, someone hovers him, but you can’t see more, because you’re unceremoniously pulled up from the ground.

“What are you doing here?!” Thorin Oakenshield grunts at you, piercing you with his stormy gaze. “We are under attack!”

“I see that!” you bark back. If he thinks that you’re going to explain yourself to him now, he’s as stupid as a rock frog.

“Come!” he grabs your arm and pulls you back inside the mountain. Only then you notice that he wears a cuirass with chainmail underneath it, along with other pieces of armor that probably have even more complicated names. His left gloved hand is wrapped against your narrow wrist and in his right hand, he holds a sword. Or rather, the sword. Your eyes are drawn to the elegant line of its blade and you see the grip made of a fang of an ancient serpent. The legendary Orcrist. You’re so mesmerized by it that you barely notice that the King Under the Mountain leads you into a less frequented corridor.

“You could have become injured, Lady Ragna! This is not a place for a lady of your stature!” he exclaims with bolts of anger in his eyes, his brow furrowed.

“I need to know what the situation is to organize support for our warriors!” you shout into his face, stomping your foot on the ground in annoyance. Who does he think he is?! “They’ll need more weapons, and there will be the wounded to care for and...”

“The siege has just started, this is all you need to know!” he growls back, his nostrils flaring. He is like a prowling beast approaching his prey.

“You are not going to tell me what I need or not need to know! You are not my…” your words fail you all of a sudden.

“I am not your what, Ragna?” flashing his teeth in a snarl, he takes another step towards you. Your heart starts beating faster.

Damn he’s hot. And annoying. Irresistibly annoying. You grind your teeth and withstand his stare, “You are…”

“I am your king!” he interrupts you. “And I am ordering you to do two things! You will send a raven to Dain and then evacuate the ones that are unable to fight into the deep caves! Is that understood?”

Your king or not, he’s an overbearing dwarf. And he assumes too much!

“That’s what I was planning to do after gathering the information on the enemy! Lord Dain needs to know this in order to lead a successful counterattack!” you speak, seething with anger.

“You were staring at the most irrelevant Orc units! You could have gotten killed for things that I could have told you myself!” his voice deepens even more as he glares at you.   
“Well, you were up there on the battlements, I’d have to come there anyway!”

A loud growl rumbles in the King’s chest, his brow furrows and his gaze darkens, “You are an exceptionally stubborn dwarven lady!”

“And you are an exceptionally rock-skulled dwarf! You’d better thank Durin for your lineage! If you weren’t a king, I would have slapped you right now!”   
“Then, by all means, hit me if this is what you desire, but be fast because I have dwarven lives to save, just as I did with yours mere moments ago!”

And now that blasted King of Erebor and all the other Dwarven Kingdoms is towering over you, anger sharpening his handsome features. You wonder if he is unaware of what his alluring presence is doing to your knees… and your other body parts, to be honest. Oh, you want to wipe off that haughty smirk from his face so badly! Your hand clenches in a fist. He told you himself to do with him as you desire and he’s clearly thinking you’re going to do exactly what he ordered you to! Ha! That will be the day! 

Your eyes fall on the Orcrist in his hand, and just then, it dawns on you. He’s going to battle against overwhelming enemy forces! They say he is a great warrior, but Mahal knows that anything can happen on the battlefield! What if he gets injured, just like that Dwarf you saw on the battlements? This last thought makes you pause for a heartbeat. You unclench your hand.

Thorin Oakenshield is staring down at you intently, still holding that bloody Goblin Cleaver in his hand. What is he planning to do with it now, anyway? What a showoff. And those damn smirking lips of his. You have enough of this! Yes, you’re going to show him what you are made of!

You stand on your tiptoes, grab handfuls of his sable mane, and press your own lips to his. Oh, sweet Mahal, how hot they are! And his deep blue eyes! Completely widened in shock. Ha! That will serve him right! You get straight to the point and teasingly suck on his full lower lip, enjoying the delicious purr that escapes him. Something clinks beside you, a metal blade against stone, but you’re not looking, because two strong arms pull you flush against his breastplate, and then his lips attack you with an unexpected ardour. He cups your face with his gloved hand, rough leather against your delicate skin, and begins the conquest of your lips. His mouth possessively and thoroughly claim the newly discovered territory, but you counterattack, nibbling on his lips, running your fingers through his beard. You hear a rumbling growl and then his tongue runs across the line of your lips. Someone here is eager, isn’t he? A chuckle escapes your lips and as they part he immediately uses it to his advantage. His tongue delves into your mouth only to meet yours in a duel of passion. A wave of impossible heat spreads through your body as he runs his fingers through your hair, completely ruining your elaborate hairdo, but you don’t care, clinging to him, demanding more of that yearning that is slumbering within him. Your hands move along his arms to his armor-covered shoulders, and you can almost feel the hardness of his muscles underneath. The way his coarse beard brushes against your skin seems to deepen all the sensations you are feeling. His lips clash against yours, thirstily demanding more and more, while your arms are wrapped around his strong neck, his hand pressed firmly at the small of your back, your nose pressed against his skin, taking in his scent, leather, well-oiled metal, and a pinewood note with smoky sweetness. You are drowning into him, into the primeval hunger your bodies share. And you want more. 

“My King!” an unfamiliar voice calls from somewhere further away. Your lips and his part just as suddenly as they have met, your both chests heaving. There is a flicker in his eyes and the corner of his lips curls up in a small smile. Not a smirk. A smile.

“Will you fulfill your king’s orders with equal fervour and remain in the mountain?” he murmurs, disentangling his hand from your hair.

“Only if the said King returns from the battle in one piece,” you offer your ultimatum, feeling how tender and swollen your lips have become. Why has no one ever told you that kings could be such great kissers?   
“You drive a hard bargain, my lady,” he chuckles. “You will attend to securing the mountain, and I will attend to the battle. And when I return…” he raises one of his dark brows and his eyes travel to your lips, “...we will talk.”

A slight bow of his head, and he’s gone, taking both his sword and your yearning with him. Your gaze follows him until his broad-shouldered silhouette disappears around the corner.

Damn. What are you going to do about the beard burns on your skin?! That insolent warrior of a king! 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who could have expected THAT?!
> 
> Don't forget to let me know what you're thinking about this chapter! It helps me write a lot! Thanks 💙💙💙


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That annoying King Under the Mountain and his intoxicating kisses! How dare he snog you into oblivion and then go into some stupid battle with Orcs, most probably to get himself killed! And you can't do anything about it! That mountain goat of a king and his lips!
> 
> P.S. You've probably noticed that this fic is now rated E. Please proceed with caution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is quite long and you will need a glass of ice-cold water. Or two.  
> My beta reader almost fainted after reading this chapter. Don't tell me I haven't warned you.
> 
> \- - -  
> Tharkûn - (Khuzdul) Gandalf  
> \- - -

You are in trouble. You kissed Thorin Oakenshield. Yes, the King himself. Whoops. And, what’s worse, he kissed you back. You still remember how he smiled at you afterwards. First you thought it was a triumphant smile of a conqueror used to winning all of his battles, but then you noticed that mysterious flicker of emotion in his eyes and you weren’t sure of anything any longer. Shit.

Sighing, you look around. In the faint light of lanterns, you can see countless dwarves huddled in groups. There are children, expectant mothers, the elders, and everyone else who is not able to hold a battle axe and join the fighting at the entrance to your city in the Iron Hills. You know that everyone is safe here, in the deep caves, protected by thick walls of stone and a labyrinth of hidden passages no Orc can penetrate.

It is late night now. At least you think so. You lost track of time. Many hours have passed since you saw the King in that secluded passage, but you still feel his passionate kiss on your lips. That’s all it was! One kiss exchanged in the heat of the moment, at the brink of battle! Right. A good luck kiss between a sovereign and his subject. Just a tad more sensual than one would expect. Yes. Nothing more than that. And yes, you decide to ignore the fact that when you kissed, your heart beat faster, your cheeks flushed and your mind was drifting blissfully among the clouds.

Damn your chaotic mind! Dwarves are dying left and right out there, protecting the lives of their brethren, protecting your life, and the only thing you can think of is how good of a kisser His Infuriating Majesty is?! Where is your detached, professional mind when you need it the most? Another sigh escapes your lips. Sitting down on a bench you rest your back against a wall, wrapping yourself in a blanket. You know you won’t get any sleep, but at least you won’t be cold while your mind keeps on racing in circles.  _ Mahal, keep him safe. _ You correct yourself.  _ Mahal, keep our warriors safe. _

Not being trained for war, you feel useless now. You hate the feeling of being idle and unable to influence the situation. The last report you received a couple of hours ago said that the battle was a difficult one, mostly because of the overwhelming enemy forces, but there was still hope. Lord Dain. You are sure the raven you sent has reached him hours ago. The question was: would Dain’s warriors arrive on time? 

_ Mahal, let us survive the night. Mahal, keep Thorin safe. _ No, not Thorin, that’s not his true name. If you only knew his secret name, Mahal would surely listen to your pleas. You shake your head in exasperation. What is happening to you? Are you losing your senses? You know very well that the only way you’d know his true name was if you were bound to him in marriage. The dwarven custom dictates that only after the ceremony the couple can exchange their true names in private so that no other ears can hear them. Wait a moment! You’re not thinking about marriage, are you? You’ve always hated that stuff, it simply wasn’t your thing. You prefer a less formal approach to things. Why would you bind yourself to some reputable old fart with smelly feet, who would most probably be useless in bed but instead would try to order you around and scrutinize your every move? You could find the joys of the marital bed elsewhere and keep your independence, thank you very much. Marriages and weddings were good for young, idealistic maidens. All those useless gowns (well, seven, to be exact, one for every day of the wedding), lengthy preparations, and those boring, endless ceremonies… Ugh. No, you're definitely not thinking about marriage. Especially not when it comes to Thorin Oakenshield. The Biggest Goat Under the Mountain. You wonder why he never married. It was common knowledge that he received quite a few political proposals of marriage, but never agreed to any of them. Perhaps that was for the best. You wouldn’t wish any woman to become the wife of this cantankerous, bullheaded, presumptuous dwarf. Besides, he’s the king, so his wedding would probably take twice as much as the usual weddings and it would be at least five times as pompous. Yaaawn.

Damn it, Ragna, snap out of it! You need to find yourself a new lover, that’s what’s wrong with you. You close your eyes and try to imagine what you would like him to look like. You can see him already: long, dark, wavy hair you would run your hands through, lush beard, eyes blue like sapphires, the strong line of his jaw, a regal nose. As he walks towards you, you admire his warriors’ body, the raw male power slumbering in his every move. He smirks at you in a very alluring way and then speaks in that deep voice of his, sinfully sweet and dark like wild honey: “When I return, we will talk...”

Wait… what?!

A resonant sound of warning horns reaches you. Someone is running; you can hear the heavy stomping of dwarven boots against the stone.

“My lady! My lady!” a messenger stops in front of you.

“What is it?” you ask sharply, already standing up, your blanket thrown off your shoulders.

“We’re saved! Lord Dain is coming! The Orcs won’t know what hit’em!”

A wave of cheerful shouts and murmurs fills the cavern as the news reaches everyone.

Your first reaction is to leave and go to the battlements, to see it with your own eyes, to make sure… But you sit down again, recalling once again that you are not a warrior and can’t help in the battle. Thanking the messenger, you decide to do what you do best: organize, procure and negotiate. Quickly you gather the dwarves who are skilled in the art of healing; there will be wounded warriors soon. And there are also medicinal supplies to think of and infirmaries to prepare. Plus, you’d need cooks; everyone will be famished. Finally you have something productive to do.

***

Another messenger finds you as you are dozing off, your head propped on your elbow resting against a small medicine table in one of the infirmaries. Together with a group of skilled dwarves, you left the hideout several hours ago to prepare everything for the exhausted and wounded warriors.

“It’s over, Lady Ragna! It’s all over!” the messenger shouts into your ear. Startled, you bump your head against the hard surface of the table. Ouch.

“What is over?” you growl at him.

“We have won!” the copper-headed youngster claps his hands together and smiles.

You jump up on your feet and leave the infirmary in a hurry, forgetting to take off the apron you wore during your work to protect your dress. It feels surreal. When you put on your elegant gown last morning, your mind was set on the negotiations and on impressing the King. Now, in the aftermath of a battle, it’s only a nuisance. Your legs carry you towards the main gate to the city in record time. You stop in your tracks. The gate is wide open and visibly damaged. Bodies of dead orcs are scattered around the entrance hall, but you can’t see any dwarves among the deceased.  _ Thank Mahal! _ Several warriors are already getting rid of the filth and the healers are busy attending to the dwarves who need help the most. 

Slowly, a wide flood of warriors returning from the battle pours into the city. Your eyes scan their faces impatiently, but there is no sight of him. Your fingers are nervously fiddling with the edge of your apron. You recall what they said about the Battle of the Five Armies that happened five years ago. King Thorin II Oakenshield suffered a serious wound and barely survived. Luckily, Tharkûn the Grey Wizard was there and helped him recover from that almost fatal injury.  _ Mahal, please, let Thorin be among the survivors once again!  _

That is when you see him, walking through the gate, Lord Dain beside him, their armors dented, both of them grinning in triumph. And -  _ thank Mahal! _ \- they both seem uninjured. A wave of relief washes over you. As soon as the two rulers enter the city, the entrance hall explodes in cheers and applause.

King Thorin stands in the middle of the crowd talking to the warriors, his hair unruly, almost black, his face smudged with dirt, but you don’t think you have ever seen him so regal, so commanding. You order your suddenly weakened knees not to fail you now. From the edge of the hall you steal another glance at him and in that moment your eyes meet. As his sapphire gaze burns into your face, you feel a slight tingling in your lips, recalling the kiss you shared before the battle. You bite your lip. Damn it. Stupid, enticing, arrogant, titillating King, although the way he looks at you now makes you think of a powerful battle ram preparing to charge at the gates of a besieged castle. Yup, he’s doing it again. One look at you and the flames of your desire burst up to the ceiling of the mountain cavern. And it’s a very high ceiling. 

In a few quick strides, Thorin Oakenshield, the King Under the Mountain, approaches you. His movements make you think of a wild beast prowling its prey.

“It is time for us to talk, Lady Ragna,” he states in a husky voice, his eyes burning into your face.

“It is,” you agree, hoping your face doesn’t betray the emotions that are raging inside you. 

You walk through several pathways in silence, keeping a respectful distance, not meeting each other’s gaze. The city is almost empty, most of its inhabitants still in hiding, the warriors still at the gate. Soon, there will be music, food and celebration, but for now, the deeper into the mountain you go, the more deserted it looks. Suddenly, without a warning, the ruler of Erebor, Thorin, the second of his name, pulls you into a narrow, forgotten corridor, taking your breath away.

***

His lips crash with yours with the fury of a raging storm. He tastes like red hot iron and smells like the cool mountain wind. You feel the cold surface of a stone wall against your back, the hardness of his armor mercilessly pressing against your breasts, you’re barely able to breathe, but who cares. Who would have thought of breathing at such a moment? Not you. Not when he’s back, victorious and unharmed. The city is safe. He is alive. And you feel more alive than you have felt in a long while. Your hands are entangled in his hair and you’re pulling him towards you, demanding more, not planning to let him go anytime soon, at least not until you’re done with him.

The kiss is like a battle all over again, but this time you are both fighting against a common enemy: the flames of your lust. Yes, of course, you want to be devoured by this fire once and for all, let’s face it, you’ve wanted it since you laid your eyes on Thorin Oakenshield for the first time. But now you want to cherish it. Everyone in the Iron Hills is currently celebrating the victory against the Orc army, it is obvious that you’re going to do the same, and with the King Under the Mountain himself, nonetheless. It’s only proper that he is shown how grateful his subjects in the Iron Hills are, right? Besides, he’s a fine specimen of dwarfhood and you have always had a weakness for fearless and strapping, very well-built warriors. And,  _ Mahal _ , he is very well-built. Very. 

His tongue slides into your mouth, hot and impatient, finding yours and beginning a sensual dance as they both intertwine. He is exploring, eager to conquer the new, unknown land that he encountered in this secluded passage. You. One of his hands cups the back of your head as he dives into yet another passionate kiss while his other hand travels along the curves of your body and cups one of your shapely buttocks. Through the fabric of your gown you can feel his fingers pressing into the softness of your skin. A moan escapes your lips, stifled by his kiss. Yes, you should probably keep quiet, you wouldn’t like to be discovered, would you? You suck at his delicious lower lip instead of making any more noises, and hear a low rumble awakening in his chest, a herald of a storm of passion to come.

You can feel his hard thigh pressing against your legs and you slightly pull them apart.

“Lift me up,” you purr into his ear and wrap your arms around his neck.

One glance into his sapphire eyes darkened with yearning and you know he understood you at once. Clever king. He grabs your waist and lifts you into the air as if you weighed nothing more than a feather.  _ Ohh. Mahal, he’s so strong!  _ Your skirts bundled up, you wrap your legs around his waist, brushing against the cold metal of his cuirass. Stupid armor. No matter, you have more important things to focus on now. Thorin presses you against the wall and holds you firmly, one of his massive hands wrapped around your thigh as his scorching lips begin their explorations along your neck, sending delicious shivers down your spine.

“You’re like wine…” he murmurs huskily into your skin, his beard prickling against it.

“Old and musty?” you grin, running your fingers through his silky, slightly damp hair, a few strands of silver against ebony. 

“Strong, sweet,” he chuckles and playfully catches a patch of your skin between his teeth only to let it go and cover it with his greedy mouth, “And going straight to my head.”

His low voice makes you think of molten dark chocolate, intoxicating and sinful. You want to reply but then one of his large hands covers your breast, burning through the fabric of your clothes and you forget about everything else. There is roughness in his caresses, but it’s exactly what you are after. The thrill of a battle. Blood is thrumming through your veins with impossible speed; warmth uncoils deep inside you as you press your hips against him. Thank Mahal you’re not some innocent maiden because you’d faint in ecstasy in a blink of an eye. This dwarf is a serious danger to womankind. All those dwarven ladies will surely be grateful to you knowing that you decided to take care of this walking explosive all by yourself. And judging by what your senses tell you, this explosive is quite large and definitely ready for action. Good. He’s not the only one. You grin, running your hands upwards, along his strong neck, feeling the muscles underneath the heat of his skin. Your hands move to his bearded cheeks, lifting his head. Thorin’s heavily-lidded gaze is blurred with passion, his chest is heaving and it takes a moment until his eyes regain focus. Yummy. You could devour him right here and now. You can. And you want to.

“Would his majesty grant a favour to his faithful subject?” you cast him one of the appealing looks from your arsenal, attempting to keep your head clear. It’s not an easy task, though, feeling his exhilarating closeness, his bold touch, his raw scent, his heat burning your skin. He is like a furnace fueled by pure lust and adrenaline. Relishing in the sensation of his beard brushing against your hands, you barely notice that he takes one of them in his hand and places a surprisingly gentle kiss in the middle of your palm. You bite on your lower lip not to whimper as his lips send a wave of heat through your body.

“It depends on the favour,” he raises one of his thick eyebrows, flashing his teeth in a grin, their white, even rows contrasting with the smudges of blood and dirt on his face.

You thought you were in a forgotten, drafty corridor, but it feels as if you were in the middle of forges working at full capacity.  _ Mahal, it’s bloody hot in here. Mahal, he’s bloody hot.  _ Focus. You have to focus. 

You take a deep breath and open your mouth, a small smile dancing on your lips.

“Would his majesty agree to move to a more… comfortable place so that we can finish our  _ negotiations _ undisturbed?” your eyelids flutter invitingly.

“You are lucky, my lady,” King Under the Mountain chuckles as his hands close around your waist. Yes, they do. Such large, manly hands of a warrior. Damn, it’s getting even hotter in here than before.

“Oh? Does that mean my favour will be granted by your majesty?” you tilt your head slightly.

“That means I find you quite irresistible, my lady Ragna, and I plan to continue our  _ negotiations _ for a while,” he replies and both quickly and effortlessly lifts you up, throws you over his shoulder. You manage to utter a faint squeal of surprise. Now he holds you in a firm grasp, carrying you away deeper into the mountain, while you’re graced with a delicious view of his muscular buttocks covered by the dark fabric of his trousers.

Yummy.

***

For a long while, it’s only the brute of a king, his heavy steps echoing in the empty corridors of the mountain, and you, hanging from his shoulder. 

“How about you let me go, your majesty? I can walk myself!” you wiggle your body, but he tightens his iron grip around your thighs.

“When I’m done with you, you will not be too eager to walk, my lady,” you can feel a rumbling chuckle filling his chest as he puts you down on the floor. 

You gasp in fake indignation (a girl needs to keep her appearances, right?) and then you see him open a heavy wooden door. King Thorin II Oakenshield himself makes a courtly bow, gesturing at you to enter the room. You gather your skirts, trying not to notice how wrinkled and stained they have become due to your recent, well,  _ negotiations _ with the King. Gracefully you raise your chin and walk into the chamber, making sure to subtly swing your hips when passing him by. As you predicted, you are rewarded with an approving growl. King or no king, he’s definitely a man, and you are planning to get thoroughly acquainted with that particular aspect of the King of Carven Stone. Besides, you already know that some parts of him have to be carved of stone. Really. There is no other explanation for what you felt a few moments ago in that corridor.

“Enjoying the view, Lady Ragna?” the sound of the closing door behind you brings you back to reality. You seriously need to get this king out your system one way or another. You can barely think of anything else. Or anyone.

Forcing yourself to look around, you recognize where you are. Most of the walls are covered with shelves filled with large scrolls of parchment. There are only large maps of various areas hanging on one of the walls, but the largest map is beneath your feet. The central part of the floor in this room is made into a map of the known Middle Earth encrusted with various types of stone and precious gems. The sapphire Blue Mountains in the East, then the Shire with its hills, the Misty Mountains, and then Rhovanion with the emerald Mirkwood. Last but not least, there is a magnificent red ruby marking the Lonely Mountain on the map. One of the greatest points of pride of the craftsmen and jewelers of the Iron Hills.

“The Map Room? How do you know of this place, your majesty?” you turn to your sovereign. You know this place all too well.

He takes a step towards you and corrects you pointedly, his eyes are burning into you, “Thorin. I’m not a complete stranger to Iron Hills, Ragna. Lord Dain is immensely proud of this room,” he points at the floor.

A round of happy shouts echoes somewhere away, along with the cheerful sounds of music.

“Just as the people of Iron Hills are proud of their king,” you smile and close the distance between you, placing your hands on the hard metal of his cuirass. The armor is slightly dented on his left shoulder, and there is a black smudge running across it. It’s not dwarf blood for sure.

“Are they, Ragna?” he looks into your eyes, his darkened gaze never leaving your face. Why haven’t you noticed before how thick and soft his eyelashes were, just like his well-defined eyebrows?

“They are. Very much, Thorin,” you admit, subconsciously licking your lips. 

“Will you show me, how proud they are, Ragna?” there is a flicker in his gaze as he raspily speaks your name, his lips approaching yours. You want to hear him say your name over and over, and preferably never stop. A sudden thought comes to your mind. How would it feel to hear your true name spoken by him, in that scandalously low voice of his? Snap out of it, Ragna, stop daydreaming! Focus on here and now.

The King… no, Thorin is towering over you and in that very moment you allow yourself to feel feminine and delicate for once, shedding your usual armor of a tough negotiator. You stand on your tiptoes, your nose brushes against his, and then you tilt your head, closing your eyes. 

“This much…” you murmur. A faint smell of pine envelops you, your lips meet his, kindling the flames between you yet again.

You press into him, and Thorin, clearly surprised by your sudden movement, takes a step back. Now his back is pressed against a wall, or rather, a detailed map of the Old Forest Road. While your lips meet his, the kiss bursting with barely contained passion, your fingers don’t waste any time and reach towards the leather straps holding his armor in place. Whoever designed this piece of junk clearly had no idea about how horny the dwarven ladies can be.

“My faithful subjects seem to be very eager tonight,” he chuckles, cupping your face with his hand.

“Shut up, your majesty, and help me free you from this contraption, or I swear to Mahal, I’m not letting you out of here!” you let your irritation get the better of you.

“And very feisty,” he observes in amusement, but his hands quickly help you and soon the breastplate and other armor parts fall to the floor with a clink. “I may take you next time to the battlefield, Ragna,” he grins.

“First, you have another battle to take part in, Thorin,” you inform him, greedily pulling at the drawstrings of his gambeson, noticing some red stains on its sleeves. Couldn’t he have worn even more layers to that stupid battle?

“This battle I intend to relish,” Thorin the Warrior retorts and throws the gambeson to the floor. He wears a white, long-sleeve undershirt and a sigh of relief leaves your mouth. The fabric isn’t stained with blood.  _ Thank Mahal, he truly isn’t injured.  _ Your gaze slides along the outline of his pectorals, his shirt clinging to his taut torso. Finally! Your bodies crash into each other and at that moment all that matters is his lips against yours, his hands delving in your hair and his hard torso pressing against your breasts.

“What if anyone comes in?” you blurt out suddenly as your hands find their way under his shirt, moving along his body, following the well-defined lines of his muscles.

“They won’t. The door is locked,” he replies, peppering your skin with countless kisses.

You take an effort to glance at the entrance to the chamber and see a turned key in the lock. Perfect. Both this chamber and the king are yours now.

“That little apron of yours is driving me wild,” he murmurs raspily into your ear, his hand pressing into your buttock, squeezing it gently. Thorin has clearly found something to his liking. 

“Is it because you wish to get underneath it?” you throw your head backwards, giving a silvery laugh.

“You are indeed a formidable negotiator, Ragna. You can read people’s minds,” Thorin the King smirks, helping you get rid of the apron. As soon as it falls to the floor, his mouth lands on that special place where your neck and shoulder meet, assaulting it with insistent, rough kisses, the hard bristles of his beard brushing against your softness, leaving a trail of sizzling hot skin in its wake.

You hum in approval when his wanton lips move to your cleavage and you inwardly congratulate yourself for your choice of a low cut dress. Thorin the Lover is very meticulous, exploring every inch of your uncovered skin in search of your most sensitive places. Thorin the King orders his hands to roam your body and one of them manages to coax one of your breasts out of your bodice, just enough so his tongue can toy with your nipple. You feel the calloused palm of a warrior against your suddenly bared, delicate skin, along with the deliciously wet heat of his mouth and you’re melting like a wax candle under his touch. This is when your knees decide to give way beneath you, but he holds you firmly, your lower back pressed against his firm body. Yes, he is definitely made of rock.

“You need to lay down, Ragna,” he purrs in that sinful voice of his and before you manage to let out anything more than a whimper, gently he lays you down on the floor, on top of his gambeson and your apron to shield you from the chill of the stone. My, my, how thoughtful we are.

That moment passes quickly when he presses your lips against yours once again, as if to make sure that you haven’t forgotten how intoxicating his caresses are. And then, there are his hands doing something to your bodice, but you don’t care, entranced by his kiss. You have to admit, he is a splendid kisser, making the familiar pool of heat grow between your legs.

“Damned feminine garments,” he grumbles.

You hear the sound of ripping fabric and suddenly you can take a deep breath, unconstricted by any clothes.

“Have you ruined my dress, you brute?” you protest, but then you let out a moan when his hands cover your breasts. Oh Mahal, his wonderful hands.

“I’ll buy you a new one. Now let me worship those magnificent peaks of yours…” he rumbles with a lustful glint in his eyes as he admires your mostly bare body spread underneath him, your back resting across the black marble range of Misty Mountains on the floor. “The great Mount Gundabad,” he grazes your left nipple with his teeth, “the magnificent Methedras,” he flicks his tongue around your right nipple, “and the High Pass between them,” his scorching lips travel along the valley between your breasts. 

_ By the Valar!  _ That’s it. You can’t wait any longer. You’re going to get your fill of this mercilessly alluring king once and for all. But first, before the last shred of thought leaves your mind (currently drowning in a haze of lust), you need to make some things clear.

“Don’t think that’s going to change anything in the negotiations between Iron Hills and Erebor,” you state clearly. Articulating words when Thorin the Lover feasts on your breasts is a greater challenge than you thought. Damn his tantalizing lips!

“Are you concerned I’m suddenly going to agree to all your conditions?” Thorin the King asks, but you hear a playful tone in his voice.

“That would make the negotiations even more boring than before.”

“Then let’s make sure  _ these _ negotiations are twice as eventful,” this is when he doubles his efforts. No, scratch that. Triples them. His mouth travels down the soft plain of your belly, as if following the river Anduin on the map beneath your back and finding your navel along the way.

“The Carrock,” he breathes into your skin surrounding it, exploring the map of your body. “Did you know you can get a clear view of Erebor from there?”

As he speaks these words, his hand travels to the mound at the juncture of your hips. It’s still covered with a thin lace fabric of your small clothes.

“The Lonely Mountain?” you breathe in, feeling his fingers burning your skin, playing with the edge of the lace.

“Lonely? Not for much longer,” with a small smirk, he places a kiss below your navel while his fingers boldly yet gently slide under the fabric to seize the hidden treasure it has guarded until now. 

A whimper escapes your lips as you feel his touch as he finds his way between your folds, straight to your temple of womanhood.  _ Oh…! _ How on earth does he know how you like to be caressed the most? 

It doesn’t take him long to find your ruby bud of pleasure.  _ Oh, Mahal, his devilishly skilled fingers!  _ Perhaps the rumors saying that he enjoys playing harp are true after all, because he is playing you exceedingly well. Oh, so very well. A tormented whimper betrays you as his fingers unhurriedly find an especially inventive way to pleasure you, his movements slow but steady. You can feel his gaze on your face, but you can barely lift your eyelids, constant waves of pleasure washing over your mind.

A cool whiff of air around your hips makes you realize that now you are completely naked, bare under his hungry gaze. His ministrations suddenly stop and you gasp in protest, opening your eyes. Thorin is positioned between your legs now, his shirt gone, and you can finally take in the magnificent view of his bare chest, his broad shoulders, his well-honed pectorals generously covered by dark hair, the lines of his abdominal muscles taunting your fingers to run over them, along with a line of hair mockingly disappearing into his trousers. Why is he so far away from you, out of reach of your arms? And why is he lowering himself over you this way…?  _ Oh. Oh, Mahal. _

For a blink of an eye, his face hovers above your mound, his hot breath fanning your skin. He raises his intent gaze from above the secret place between your legs and meets your widened eyes as you lick your lips in anticipation. A flicker dances in the endless depths of his eyes and then his mouth falls on the most sensitive part of your body, eliciting another moan out of you. As his lips dance against your slick hotness, you let out another moan, a louder one. He swirls his tongue around that special place of yours, just the way you like it, and then starts sucking on it gently, sending waves of pleasure straight to your core. Another moan, and another. And then his fingers join in, delving between your folds and entering you slowly, making your back arch at this unexpected bliss, while his mouth and beard are still pressed against you. He is still doing his magic. Yes, you are a harp now, and you want to be played by him, always, without end. You don’t want to be anything else as long as he keeps this immense pleasure flooding your senses, running through your veins, sending ecstatic shivers throughout your body.

“You are exquisite, Ragna…” he purrs into your skin, the vibrations making you moan in delight and this is what pushes you over the edge for the first time, pure ecstasy taking over your body, and you let yourself lose in the sensual pleasure he brought you. Its sudden intensity has been both surprising and overwhelming. A few long moments pass before you return to your senses.

“Is this how you like it?” his caresses slowly subside. “Are these the negotiations you had in mind?”

“Mahal, Thorin, I need more…!” you demand, still feeling slightly dazed, but you sit up, making him raise his head. Oh, yes, you want more. He looks at you playfully, and you can’t stop yourself from once again admiring his handsome features, from his lush hair, through his dark blue flickering eyes, half-lidded with lust, to the curve of his mouth in his beard glistening with your juices.

“A new addendum to the treaty?” Thorin the King raises his eyebrow with a knowing smile.

“Yes. Written in fine cursive so you have to come closer!” You’re going to wipe that smile off his face if he teases you any longer, that sly raven of a king!

Thorin the Lover lunges at you, his fluid movements making you think of a feral beast pouncing at his prey, but there’s one thing this beast fails to notice. You are not the prey. He is.

“This close?” he murmurs into your ear, his bearded cheek brushing against yours, just like his coarse chest hair brushes against the tips of your breasts. His arms are on both sides of you supporting his large, hot body that covers you completely. He gives off heat as if he were fueled by forge fires.

“Perfect,” you turn your head, finding his lips and delving into a kiss while your fingers start unlacing the bindings of his trousers. It is time to set another beast free.

“This is what I need,” you inform him graciously as your hand runs over the large bulge in his pants. He lets out a low growl, but doesn’t interrupt the kiss, clearly enjoying your attention.

“Help yourself,” Thorin the King graciously allows you this favour, brushing his lips against yours.

“Oh my, I didn’t know the king’s scepter was carved out of rock,” you free his impressive length out of his clothes, wrapping your hand around its base, your fingers unable to meet around his member.  _ Oh my, indeed.  _ His skin is silky smooth and hot under your palm. 

Thorin the Lover hisses in pleasure, “It’s one of the king’s best-guarded secrets.”

Your hand moves up and down along his shaft several times in one smooth caress, tightening slightly, and then letting go of his delicious  _ scepter _ completely.

“Mahal, woman, you are a tease!” he mutters raspily, pressing his forehead against yours, breathing heavily.

“And what are you going to do about it?” you challenge him once again, meeting his dark gaze.

“I’m going to give it to you, Ragna,” his husky voice makes you shiver with want. This deliciously handsome and annoyingly arrogant king is going to be yours. You invite him in, pulling your legs wider apart as he leads his member towards your heat. Soon you feel him pressing against your entrance, and you hold your breath but then you hear his whisper.

“Look at me,” as these words leave your lips, as your eyes meet yet again, he enters you unhurriedly, savoring every moment of it. A soft whimper escapes you as your body adjusts to his size and you drown in his gaze. Mahal, he feels even harder than before. Halfway through he pulls out a bit and then returns, steadily going forward, his movements sending torrents of pleasure across your body.  _ Oh my, oh my, oh my!  _ You can’t come yet, you have to withstand it, you can't turn into a molten puddle of bliss just yet! You take a deep breath to steady yourself, and then, with one powerful thrust of his hips, he fills you completely.

“Thorin,” you mumble, your legs instinctively wrapping around him as he lowers himself above you. You had a clever plan, you were supposed to do something, but now it’s all gone from your head. There is only his touch, his lips against yours, his hand firmly gripping your hip, your hands on his back, keeping him close, his temple braids brushing against your skin. 

“Ragna, beautiful Ragna,” he replies and thrusts again. You reply with a moan, your hips meeting his as he thrusts once more.

“This is…” you manage to utter two words as your bodies find a steady rhythm, slowly picking up the pace. Where are you, Ragna’s brain? Ah, right. Between your legs.

Thorin the Warrior claims your lips savagely and thrusts all the way inside of you, as if a primeval urge has taken over him. You cling to him, wanting to finally quench your desire, demanding more of the growing pleasure. His hand moves under your bottom, his movements not stopping.

“Thorin…” you cry out, liquid euphoria filling your veins.

“That’s it, say my name again,” his hand squeezes your buttock, coaxing you.

A lengthy moan leaves your lips.

“My name, Ragna, let me hear it,” Thorin the King orders you, relentlessly thrusting inside you.

“Thooo...rin…” you utter a barely comprehensible whisper.

“Yes, exactly, say it one more time,” he murmurs into your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. His hand lifts your hips slightly and he finds a new angle while his nimble fingers travel between your bodies, quickly finding the rosy bud of your pleasure.

“Don’t stop…” you arch your head back at these suddenly enhanced sensations. Oh no, you never, ever want him to stop. He’s filling you completely, and moving his fingers in a steady rhythm that is slowly driving you wild from ecstasy. “Don’t you dare…”

“I’m not stopping, not until you come for me. Not until I hear you say my name once again, Ragna,” as his voice weaves its wild magic around you, both his thrusts and caresses speed up, bringing you to fulfillment.

“Thorin, oh Mahal, Thorin!” a wave of indescribable pleasure takes you over as you reach your peak of ecstasy, the world spinning around you. Countless stars explode under your eyelids, like fireworks on Durin’s Day, and you’re floating away, holding on to the one who brought this bliss upon you, the one whose name you keep moaning, whispering as he keeps delving into you, unstoppable, bringing you even more pleasure with every thrust. You feel his hands resting firmly on your hips as his movements become more erratic. Suddenly his hips buckle against yours as he reaches his own summit and you feel his glorious warmth spilling inside you. 

A faint smile appears on your face as his incredibly hot body rolls off of yours. You feel the delicious wetness between your legs and let out a satiated sigh when a possessive arm wraps around your waist and pulls you towards him. You rest your head on his chest and a triumphant smile appears on your lips. Thorin the King turns out to be possessive and you allow yourself to enjoy the outcome of your encounter. In Thorin the Lover’s arms you find warmth and tenderness; this is definitely not what you expected. Clearly, he is not one of those lovers who try to leave as soon as possible after the deed is done in order to avoid any other interactions besides carnal pleasure. Some dwarves are surprisingly insecure after sharing a bed with another, but not this one. Listening to your heartbeats slowing down, your fingers playing lazily with his coarse chest hair, you raise your head and look at him. Thorin’s face is serene, his eyes closed, even the continuous frown is gone from his brow, and yet his presence is unwavering, as if he was in the exact place he was meant to be, his presence dominating the surroundings. In that moment, you don’t see a warrior any longer, nor a king or a lover. There is simply a very satisfied dwarf in front of you, basking in the afterglow of lovemaking. Lovemaking. You shake your head. Don’t be silly, Ragna. Where are those silly thoughts of love coming from? It’s about the physical needs, about quenching your desires, nothing else. Soon, you will both gather your things, refresh, and return to the celebrations, forgetting about this little incident. Your gaze moves towards Thorin’s sizeable member resting against his thigh. Scratch that. A big incident. There is nothing little about the king’s  _ scepter _ .

You are feasting your eyes on his strapping naked body stretched on the floor beside you, his wide back resting on his sadly rumpled gambeson, his head in the vicinity of the ruby peak of Erebor, while his muscular legs are pointing at the western edge of the emerald Mirkwood. 

“I have never known one could find so much pleasure scattered across the whole Rhovanion. I think I reached my diamond peak somewhere around the Mountains of Mirkwood,” you whisper dreamily, fully satiated, not sure if he’s awake or slumbering.

“Impossible. I was aiming at Esgaroth. I will not have anyone say that Thranduil’s kingdom is the source of pleasure for the most alluring lady of the Iron Hills,” he murmurs back, not opening his eyes, but you feel his hand wandering along your back, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

You reward his words with a chuckle. “Let us agree that we didn’t go farther than the East Bight!”

“You don’t want me to start another round of negotiations with you, Ragna,” he warns you playfully, opening one eye only to close if after a moment, making you think of a content dragon slumbering on a pile of gold.

Rolling onto his side, Thorin pulls you into his arms, bringing your back flush against his chest. You let out a satisfied purr, enjoying his warmth and slowly dozing off in his strong embrace, lulled into sleep by his steady breathing and the sounds of faraway celebrations echoing in the corridors of the city.

***

You are not sure how long you were sleeping, but you wake up more rested than you felt in a long while. Judging by the sounds of merriment, the whole Iron Hills are still celebrating. The dwarven stamina is legendary, after all. And about that stamina… a long, muscular arm is wrapped around you and you recall all the recent events quite clearly. Slowly, you turn around, trying not to wake Thorin the… No, now he’s Thorin. Just Thorin. The dwarf who has helped you reach two “diamond peaks” of pleasure and bliss. Looking into his peaceful face, his eyes still closed, you let your mind wander. How has it felt for him? What have those moments of passion meant to him? Was it only that unusual tension between you? Or the usual surge of adrenaline after the battle? But why has he looked at you so intently as you lay in his arms? Was it just a trick of light? What about the way he touched you so reverently, so tenderly after you made l… No. That L-word again. You shake your head. You are tired, exhausted even, and your mind plays tricks on you. This is so unlike you, Ragna! Stop acting like an infatuated maiden! The reason you feel so good, so right in his embrace is because this particular dwarf has just given you two great orgasms, that’s all. As soon as he leaves the Iron Hills, he will barely remember your name. He is the king, you are one of Lord Dain’s advisors. You need to woman up and be ready to continue the negotiations - the real negotiations between Erebor and Iron Hills, not the ones between your lustful bodies - first thing tomorrow morning. And you have to be as ruthless and as fierce as you usually are.

You allow yourself the last moment of weakness. A stray strand of hair has fallen across Thorin’s face a moment ago. You brush it off with your hand, cursing yourself for this unusually affectionate gesture. It has been only a couple of hours spent in Thorin’s arms, nothing else. Whatever has happened between you, you decide to think of it later. Right now you are busy observing the peaceful face of the sleeping warrior, the king, and the lover, etching it in your memory. You realize it’s probably the only time you get to see him from up close. You try not to think of what happens next. Tomorrow will be another day, filled with negotiations and… 

The King’s eyelids flutter, uncovering the cerulean blue of his eyes. The tender gaze of Thorin the Lover rests on your face, the tips of his fingers softly brushing against your cheek as he gives you a disarming smile. And then you hear his entrancing murmur that makes your treacherous heart beat faster.

“Good morning, Ragna.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hands you a glass of ice-cold water._
> 
> So, how was it?


End file.
